


Alone on Ivy Steps

by theoldestsister



Series: walk the path of remembrance - dream smp zombie apocalypse au [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Found Family, Fran the Dog, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Loneliness, Lonely Ranboo (Video Blogging RPF), Memory Loss, Minor Character Death, Orphan Ranboo (Video Blogging RPF), Ranboo is Fifteen, Zombies, awesamdad, but she's a human baby dont question it, canon ages are a bit weird here dont focus on it too much, memorybook my beloved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:21:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29839383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoldestsister/pseuds/theoldestsister
Summary: Out of everything, Ranboo never expected the zombie apocalypse to the end to everything. He especially didn't expect it to be so... lonely.Maybe Sam can give him some direction, and send him on the right path?
Relationships: Ranboo & Sam | Awesamdude
Series: walk the path of remembrance - dream smp zombie apocalypse au [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2193669
Comments: 1
Kudos: 36





	Alone on Ivy Steps

**Author's Note:**

> Ranboo is 15 here. i know he's not actually 15, but its for plot reasons, okay? also fran is a baby. because i said so.
> 
> the apocalypse has been happening for roughly 3 years at this point, so things are quieter.

Of all the theories he’s heard over the years — from friends, parents, pastors, that one homeless man that would sleep by his bus stop — Ranboo never guessed that the  _ zombie apocalypse  _ would be the cause of the end times. 

(The homeless man did. Quite frequently. Maybe Ranboo should’ve ignored his parent’s warnings and stopped for a chat: who knows, maybe the guy had some good advice. 

He’s probably dead now, though. So maybe he wasn’t as prepared for the “end times” as he talked about.)

Though his memories from a time  _ before  _ are weak, they’re still there. He was old enough when the apocalypse hit to know about zombies, the walking dead, the  _ infected.  _ Whatever. He wasn’t a total shut in homeschool kid with no friends and no knowledge of pop culture. 

(Okay, he kind of was, but he had his babysitter, Hannah, who would show him mature movies his parents wouldn’t let him watch, and would sneak candy under his pillow if she had extra cash. 

In the beginning, she was one of the only people — other than his parents and, like. Neil Cicierega — who he actually wondered survived. 

After a while, he forgot to worry.)

When he woke up on a Saturday morning, ready to catch the early morning cartoons, he didn’t expect to look out his window and see his elderly neighbor sprinting down her driveway, mouth frothing with blood. Ranboo remembers watching her attack one of the stroller-mom’s who would take early morning walks around the neighborhood. 

There’s a gap. 

This is before he thought to write things down, to record what he might lose. He never had to before; there hadn’t been anything life-or-death about forgetting a family member or losing track of the dates. Embarrassing, sure, but he still did well enough in school, still remembered to take out the trash and wash the dishes, so his parents never worried.

Maybe they should have. Things are much bigger than good grades and a clean house. 

He remembers his mom had green eyes. He remembers how she brushed his hair, telling him that  _ some kids have white streaks, _ that he was her, “ _ special, little guy.” _

Long days with tutors, ending with his mother reading him a story about  _ colors _ , about a kid with two different eyes like him. Her skin was pale. She liked to smile. 

He remembers photo albums getting shoved into his hands. Ripping out photos and shoving them in the backpack different hands — not his mother, someone else — gave him. It’s filled with clothes, flashlights, a med kit, granola bars, some baggies with cheerios in them. 

He remembers loud noises. Confusing instructions. The power going out. His mother rushing out the front door, slamming it before he can follow. 

Then the world turns black for a bit. 

——

The  _ Jansport  _ backpack is a dark pink, worn from years of dirt and grime. It’s still swung over his shoulder, still carries clothes, a medkit, and wind-up flashlights. No food, though. 

The towns are covered in ivy, so unlike the dry, arid places he’s been stuck in for months. Tall brick buildings, with windows that still have snowflakes tapped to them. It must have been winter when the apocalypse hit. He hadn’t remembered. He pulls out his notebook, pulling the pencil from behind his ear and noting the discovery. 

He’s gone up north, he thinks, following a beach for as far as the roads carry him. It’s usually peaceful here: smart humans avoid it, not wanting to be cornered, and the sea air seems to make the infected decompose faster, so they don’t stick around if they don’t see a point. 

He enjoys sitting on the beach. The sunsets are lovely here: he tries to draw one as he stares, but the gray lines can’t capture the array of pink, violet, and orange that color the sky. He gives up, tucking the notebook back into his front pocket, the pencil back behind his ear. 

The sea is blue. So were the signs,  _ Fran’s Fish and Grill.  _ He’s seen eyes that blue before, hasn’t he? Who did he know that was blue?

….

He can’t remember. 

There’s a groan from a few streets over, echoing through the vacant area like a gunshot. Ranboo sighs, getting up and stretching. He doesn’t know how tall he is, but sometimes he has to duck when he walks through doors. Lanky, thin, probably malnourished, yet he still grows. 

Large maple trees grow alongside the sidewalk, now larger than some of the surrounding buildings. A few tiny maple trees have started sprouting. Thin, fragile. Hopeful. 

Ranboo weaves in between the trunks. His goggles block out the sun, green with golden rims, found in some realistic costume shop maybe a year ago. He finds them funny, the gears that decorate the sides far fancier than he has any right to wear in the middle of an apocalypse. 

It’s not like it matters though, since he’s alone. 

There’s a groan, loud and guttural. Zombie. It bangs against the glass of a coffee shop — whose logo has been lost to the elements. It mostly looks confused, not hostile, so Ranboo moves on. 

Most of the places are ice cream shops and fish-related restaurants. There’s a pizza place that still has a standing fence around the outdoor seating — tall, almost taller than Ranboo, so Ranboo heads over, ransacking what’s left of the place. 

The place is small, and pretty broken, but there’s some cans of chopped tomatoes that, quite honestly, look disgusting, but food is food. Most of the leftover stuff is long expired: cheese, rotting vegetables that look more like black stains than food, and some soda. He grabs some bottled water that was hidden underneath the counter, stuffing it in his bag before he forgets. 

Finding humor in the desolate wasteland of loneliness seems impossible, especially since Ranboo isn’t particularly funny, and he’s not stupid enough to create his own entertainment by, who knows, smashing a car or something equally loud (and deadly). 

He’s always talked to himself — the life of an only child led to some boring afternoons, entertaining himself with his own voice until his parents could play with him. It only takes so many days alone before he starts to mumble. The mumble becomes a mutter, then a whisper. Now, he’s basically just having a conversation with the air. 

Objectively speaking, he looks insane. But there’s no one around to judge him (as far as he’s aware), so he speaks. 

Rambles off jokes. Tells stories. Sometimes just talks about what he’s doing like there’s anyone else listening. He makes himself laugh, mostly. Which is good. There’s no one else left to take on that job. So. 

Laughing at the horror has become a game. Not— Not in, like, a  _ psycho  _ way. A  _ coping mechanism,  _ as Hannah would say. She wanted to be a therapist,  _ before.  _

“Who’s there?”

Ranboo freezes, his hand halfway in his bag. He reacts a second later, slowly zipping it up, swinging it onto his back as he moves backwards, toward the outdoor seating. There has to be a place to hide. 

There is not a place to hide. 

There’s some tables and chairs, all made of cheap wood that looks to be falling apart, and a raised deck area that might’ve been a stage. The fence doesn’t have a gate, and is too tall for Ranboo to leap over.

He’s trapped himself. 

Behind him, the safety on a gun clicks off. 

“Hands up, turn around for me.” The man says. He has an American accent, but his words are particularly clipped. Ranboo can’t identify the region off the top of his head. 

He obeys. His hands are trembling, and his breathing is choppy. He can see when the man takes him in, because the gun drops and the safety clicks back on. 

“Jesus, you’re just—“ the man steps forward. Ranboo tenses, bracing for impact. “Hey, hey, I’m not gonna hurt you.” 

Ranboo hesitantly opens his eyes. The man’s hands are held up, as if consoling a wild animal. Despite himself, Ranboo feels comforted. 

“You can call me Sam.” The man says. “I didn’t realize you were a kid, I apologize. Are… are you alone?”

There’s a gurgling sound, and Ranboo’s eyes dart to the man’s back. There, held up by some complicated looking straps, is a baby. Ranboo feels his eyes get comically wide. 

“See? I’m a Dad. I’m not gonna hurt you, promise.”

Ranboo’s hands drop down, and he slumps with relief. “I’m alone.” He croaks. Sam winces. 

“You can stay with me for the night, if you want?” Sam offers. 

Ranboo is nodding before the sentence is fully out. He doesn’t have the energy to be embarrassed by his desperation. 

They hole up in one of the ice cream shops, Sam confidently leading him around the wharf. 

He tells Ranboo that he hasn’t left Washington — that’s where they are, apparently — since the apocalypse started. That he had his kid right before it really went down, so he stuck around, trying to find his remaining family and friends. 

Ranboo doesn’t remember where he’s from. 

He gets asked that question a lot, when he’s with survivors. It’s certainly been awhile: his book says 2 seasons ago. Six months, spent completely alone. He still doesn’t have the answer when Sam asks. 

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. Sam stares. “I, um, I can’t remember a lot. In general. I don’t think it matters.”

“What can you remember?” Sam asks, voice gentle. They’re sitting in a storage room, which has been long-emptied of remaining supplies. 

Lips twisting as embarrassment makes his hands shake, Ranboo reaches over, opening up his bag and pulling out his notebook. 

“I’ve been to most states: I was in Louisiana when I wrote my first entry. Went though Texas for a bit, Oklahoma, avoided Alabama, went up to the Midwest and kept going west until I hit water. I’ve kinda just been following the beach. I was hoping I was going toward Cali, but I must’ve gotten turned around.”

“Why California?” Sam asks. He fishes something out of his bag, then hands it to his son. It’s a red airplane. 

Ranboo looks through the notebook until he finds it. “I have family there, apparently. I don’t know if I’ll recognize them, but maybe they’ll recognize me.”

Sam hums. Ranboo can feel Sam’s eyes, but he ignores them, staring at the floor. He never liked eye contact,  _ before _ . That hasn’t changed now. 

There’s a sudden flurry of movement; Sam pulls open his bag, moving things around with mutters under his breath. He finally lets out a quiet  _ woop _ , pulling out a colored piece of paper and laying it flat in front of him. 

Ranboo peers at it curiously. Next to him, Sam smiles warmly. 

“It’s a map of Washington,” he explains. Ranboo perks up even more: maps can be hard to find. “Here’s where we are.” He points toward the coast,  _ Alki Beach _ . “You can go on the highway and get a straight shot to California on the i5, but you’ll run into people. But, if you go the backroads,” He traces a series of roads, taking out a black ball-point pen, circling several cities and filling in certain lines. “You should be able to avoid most. It’ll take more time, though.”

“I’ve got time.” Ranboo says, nodding. He follows along the path. “Washington.” He mutters. “Don’t think I’ve ever been to Washington.  _ Before _ , I mean.”

“You’re probably the reason why it's sunny.” Sam says. When Ranboo gives him a curious look, he shrugs. “Tourists get the sunshine, locals get the storm.” 

“So after I leave it’ll storm?” Ranboo asks, horrified. What kinda place was Washington?

“It’s just a joke, don’t worry.” Sam assures, attempting at comfort. Ranboo nods, sitting back. 

His kid tottles around: now that she’s out of the carrier, Ranboo can see she’s a toddler, maybe 2 or 3. Sam follows his eyes. “She’ll be four in the fall.” 

“She’s quiet.” Ranboo notes. 

“You’re making her nervous.” Sam says, smiling slightly. “Fran’s shyness has saved me more than a few times: she goes dead silent whenever infected pass by.”

Ranboo hums. “Good for an apocalypse.”

Sam hums. There’s a far away look in his eyes. Ranboo doesn’t push. 

“What did you do? Before, I mean.” Ranboo asks, resting his chin on his folded knees. 

Sam laughs. “You won’t believe me, but I was a prison guard.”

Ranboo takes in the muscles, the piercing eyes, and remembers the tone Sam used before he realized how young Ranboo was. 

“No, I believe you.” Ranboo assures. Sam laughs. Fran looks in between them, lost, which makes Sam laugh even harder. 

Something pangs in Ranboo’s chest. 

He’s missed people. 

He leaves with the map and his backpack before Sam wakes up, and tells himself it’s for the best. He waves to Fran, who stares at him through the glass of the store. The toddler hesitantly waves back, and Ranboo winces at how cute it is. 

It’s for the best. No one should have to deal with him. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually the prequel of sorts to an apocalypse au I've been writing! basically ranboo works to reunite karlnapity in the middle of the apocalypses. its taking longer to write than anticipated, but it should be out soon!!


End file.
